


The Creation of The Violin

by Mertens



Category: Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera & Related Fandoms, Phantom of the Opera - Lloyd Webber
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/M, Fairy Tales, Magic, Once Upon Another Time, Romani Folk Tale retelling, cw: racism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-19
Updated: 2020-04-25
Packaged: 2021-02-28 17:07:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 22,519
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23210686
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mertens/pseuds/Mertens
Summary: Erik, a Romani traveler and skilled musician, hears tales of the fabled beauty of a king’s daughter. The king is offering the hand of his daughter in marriage to the man who can impress him with his talents. Erik sets out to see if this princess really is as beautiful as they all say, and he ends up falling in love with her. He’s determined to win her hand.There’s only one hitch in his plan - the king has outlawed music.
Relationships: Christine Daaé/Erik | Phantom of the Opera
Comments: 81
Kudos: 133





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This was written for @a-partofthenarrative ‘s Once Upon Another Time challenge! The idea was to take a fairy tale and adapt it with PotO themes. 
> 
> I chose the Transylvanian Romani folk tale that details how the violin was created. Obviously, it’s been changed a lot, just like how the plot of PotO has been changed too! This is probably my furthest removed from canon phic, and that’s coming from someone who wrote Erik as a literal rat and Christine as a literal mouse. 
> 
> For those curious, the forint is the currency of Hungary, and a varda is the wagon that the Roma people used to live in (you can see some amazing ones on google!)

Corauni hummed a tune to herself as she clutched her basket and set out for the market. She walked through the little Romani camp with a sad smile on her face as she watched the children play in a large group. 

“Corauni!” one of the younger mothers called out to her. “Are you going to market? Do you want me to go with you?”

Corauni shook her head. 

“No, thank you, Aishe. I’d rather go alone this time.”

Aishe smiled that pitying smile that Corauni hated so much. She hated the way she was looked at by everyone - she was the only married woman in the camp who had no children. Even Aishe already had two little ones! 

She sighed a little as she made her way down the wooded paths that led to the market. It was silent in the forest, a welcome sense of peace all around her. It was difficult to stay upset in the forest. 

“Excuse me, would you spare a coin or two for a poor old woman?”

Corauni was startled by the voice just behind her, quickly turning to look. 

“Oh,” she breathed, her heart beating terribly fast. 

The old woman looked down at the path sadly, as though she suspected Corauni would walk away without saying anything else, and Corauni’s heart was lanced with compassion for her. 

She reached into her coin purse and counted the coins out, trying to decide how many she could afford to part with - she was not what anyone would consider wealthy, no one in her camp was, but she knew what it was like to have nothing and wanted to share what little she had with this woman. 

She held four of her ten coins out to the old woman, whose ugly face lit up with joy at the gift. 

“Bless you, dear heart!” the old woman smiled as she took the coins. “You are the first person to show kindness to an old beggar woman on the road.”

“I wish I could do more,” Corauni smiled. 

“Tell me, my dear - are you happy with your life?” 

Corauni felt a sudden chill to the air, and she could have sworn she’d seen a glimpse of a much younger woman’s face pass over the countenance of the old woman in front of her. 

“What?” Corauni pulled her shawl around her and squeezed her anxious hands into the bright fuchsia fabric. 

The old woman cocked her head as she regarded Corauni. 

“Are you pleased with how your life has gone? Is there anything you wish was different?”

Corauni fidgeted. She was happy with her life! She loved her husband, Bireli, she loved her camp, she was healthy, she had enough money to afford enough food... 

She hung her head, a little ashamed. She didn’t know why she so suddenly felt like confiding in this strange woman, but-

“I am quite happy with my life. It’s just- well, Bireli and I have been married for ten years - ten long years! - and we don’t have any children... I wish more than anything that I too could be a mother... Perhaps one day, I’d like to think I could be...”

The old woman had a sparkle in her eye as she smiled at Corauni’s shy confession. 

“A child! I see. Let me tell you what you must do,” she said, and it seemed to Corauni that in that moment the woman wasn’t actually so old after all. “You are going to market, yes? Before you leave there, you must buy a pumpkin. You will take this pumpkin and leave it at the step of your varda tonight where it will be bathed in the light of the full moon.”

Corauni glanced nervously at the sky. It _was_ the full moon tonight. Who was this woman?

“But before the moonbeams can touch the pumpkin, you must pour this potion over the top of it,” here the woman reached into the folds of her long brown robe and produced a small vial, which she handed to Corauni. “If you follow this exactly, you will bear a child! And what’s more than that, the child will grow up to be rich, both in money and in love.”

Corauni could feel her pulse in her neck, the pounding of her blood in her head. A child? Could it be? The little vial looked to contain no more than water. She looked up from it to question the woman, but she was gone. 

She turned around in a circle, looking for where she could have gone, but she had really and truly disappeared. 

She clutched the mysterious vial to her chest as she walked on trembling feet to the market. She bought the groceries she needed, arranging them carefully in her basket. There was nothing left on her shopping list, but still she lingered in the market. 

_A pumpkin._

Should she? 

She walked up to the stand of the man selling gourds and pumpkins. He ignored her. There was a lovely pumpkin there, round and orange and well shaped - a perfect pumpkin, truly! It brought a smile to her face just looking at it. 

“Hello, sir,” she greeted the seller respectfully. “I would like to buy this pumpkin. How much is it, please?”

He eyed her up and down, glaring at her strange manner of dress. 

“Twelve forints,” he said gruffly. 

Her face fell. She only had four forints left after all of her shopping - and after she had given the old woman some money. She considered for a long moment. 

“How about this one?” she pointed to a much smaller pumpkin. 

“Twelve forints.”

She looked around, exasperated, and her eyes fell on a little sign in his stand that said the price of pumpkins was five forints a piece. She reached into her pocket and pulled the rest of her coins out to show to him. 

“Please, sir - this is all I have, but I desperately need a pumpkin!”

He laughed. 

“You’re just looking for a bargain! Besides, I don’t care how badly you need a pumpkin. The price is twelve forints!”

“The sign says five!”

“The sign shows the price for decent, hardworking people! The price for one of _your kind_ is twelve!”

She bit back her tears as the man berated her. She only wanted a pumpkin! But she didn’t leave. She held the coins out again, insisting. 

“Which pumpkin can I have for this much?” 

“None! However-!” a wicked grin spread across his face and he reached down to pick up something from behind the stand. 

“With four forints, you can have this!” he set before her a moldy old gourd. 

“That’s- that’s not even a pumpkin!”

“Its good enough for one like you,” he waved a dismissive hand. 

Corauni stared at it. It was rotting in spots, and had patches of mold on it. It belonged in the trash, really. She could barely even tell what type of gourd it used to be. Except- 

“I’ll take it.”

She exchanged the money and took the terrible gourd with her. 

She looked down at the gourd in her arms as she walked back to her camp. She had settled it into her arms like one would settle a child, but even still she couldn’t help the forlorn look she gave it. It really was very ugly. 

“I don’t mind how you look,” she told it as she walked through the same wooded path again. “You’re lovely to me because you’re mine.”

Her thoughts were filled with the images of a child - her child! - and all of the possibilities. A fat, happy child with rosy cheeks and pretty hair, one that she and Bireli could teach music to! Surely it didn’t matter if the pumpkin wasn’t a pumpkin but an old gourd, did it? Her thoughts strayed uneasily to how the old woman had said she must follow the directions _exactly_ , but she pushed that thought away. She would have a child, and that was all that mattered. 

She was greeted by Bireli when she returned to the little varda they called home. He looked at the hideous trash gourd in her arms and laughed. 

“What’s this? I’ve never seen anything so ugly!” 

She gasped. 

“Oh, Bireli, no! You mustn’t say that! It can’t help it!”

He felt a little bad for insulting it, though he he didn’t know why. He shrugged and reached out to pat the thing. 

“Well,” he conceded. “It’s trying its best, I suppose.”

He didn’t understand why Corauni lit up with a smile at that, but he would do anything to see her smile. 

That evening she poured the vial over the gourd, feeling quite solemn about the matter. It was quite an undertaking. Would anything even happen? She brushed her hands off on her long skirt as she stood, leaving the gourd at the bottom of the steps to their varda just like the old woman had said. She smiled fondly at the ugly little thing as it sat there, and she bid it Goodnight before climbing into the varda and locking the door. 

It was far past midnight when a loud noise outside startled Corauni and Bireli awake. They heard shouts and people yelling. Suddenly something smashed against the door of the varda. 

Grabbing a large kitchen knife, Bireli swung the door open and brandished his weapon. The little camp of travelers was being vandalized. Corauni, peeking over his shoulder, recognized a few of them as men from the town. She watched with sorrow as varda after varda had eggs and rotten tomatoes thrown at it, how their animals and horses were terrorized. 

As suddenly as it had started, it was over - the vandals had run off, cowards after all, leaving the Romani to pick up the pieces and try to calm their frightened children. They would have to move on in the morning - this town was no more accepting of them than the last one was. 

Corauni’s eyes fell to the steps of their varda, and she saw what had been so violently thrown at the door. 

The gourd. 

It lay in pieces on the ground now, utterly ruined. 

She burst into tears at the sight of it, falling into Bireli’s arms and sobbing.


	2. Chapter 2

Five months before the baby was born, Corauni confided to her husband what she had done. She poured all of her fears out to him, and he listened, and understood. 

They were fears that were realized on the day he was born. Corauni cried, inconsolable, at the sight of her son, a child just as malformed as the old gourd. 

Though the midwife was surprised, Corauni and Bireli were not. They had known that this was coming, knew that this was the likely outcome - it was why they had sought the help of a midwife in the town they were staying near instead of any of the Romani women. They took the child to three different churches before they found a priest who would baptize him, and in gratitude they named the boy after him. 

His name - Erik, not a Romani name, but the name of the man who had looked upon him and seen him as a fellow a human being worthy of being blessed - a name that his parents fiercely guarded lest it fall into the wrong hands and thus turn out badly for the boy. He had another name, too - not the one he was baptized as, but the one he was called everyday - Camlo, a name that meant _beautiful_ , because despite how he looked his parents loved him. Their only child, the child they had waited for for years - how could he not be beautiful to them? 

But he could never be beautiful to any else, they knew this too. 

Corauni stayed in the vardo for weeks after the baby was born, refusing to leave. How could she leave her child all alone? But even more - how could she take her child out and show him to the rest of the camp? No one would understand why he looked the way he did.

It was easy, at first. 

“Ah, Corauni is sleeping right now. Yes, it was a difficult birth, but she’s doing better. She just needs a lot of rest for a while.”

As time went on, however, it became more and more difficult. 

“Bireli, we haven’t seen Corauni in months! Can’t we see her? We miss her!”

Eventually Corauni had to leave the varda. Bireli stayed in, watching over little Erik. She was flooded with questions about the baby from the other women, all eager to learn about the new little one. She answered them as best she could, but refused to bring him outside, insisting that he was too sickly of a child to withstand very much. 

And he was a sickly child - perhaps it had to do with his lack of a nose, or any other half a dozen reason, but he was frequently ill. While his parents were saddened that he was suffering and did all they could to help him get well, they were not worried - the old woman in the woods had promised that he would grow up, and there was no reason to doubt that part of her promise. He might even become rich, in money at least. The only part of the woman’s prophecy that they doubted was the very last part - for how could one like him ever be rich in love? The only love he would ever have was the love of his parents, and as such they were determined that he should have as much of it as he could. 

But a child cannot live forever in a varda. 

She was careful, still, to keep him covered by a blanket on the few occasions she took the baby outside, and this was mostly accepted - the child was sensitive to sunlight, she said. 

This worked for nearly half a year until one day, in a moment of distraction, another woman pulled the blanket back to look at the baby. She took a step back and gasped. Corauni covered him quickly, but the damage had been done. 

“What’s wrong with him?” her voice was shrill as she stared at the bundle in Corauni’s arms. 

“Nothing! There’s nothing wrong with him!” Corauni frowned. 

But there was - a hole instead of a nose, strangely formed lips, he was far too thin and his skin looked strange, and while one eye was a bright hazel, the other was a sickly whitish blue, like a doll’s eye. 

The woman reached out a shaking hand to point accusingly at him. 

“He’s impure!”

Corauni hugged him tighter, her brow furrowing. 

“He’s not impure! He’s just a child!”

But the woman ran off, looking at her hand which had touched his blanket with an expression of panic. 

Corauni ran back to her varda, crying. She hugged her baby as she waited for her tears to cease, and then set him upon the bed. 

“You’re not impure,” she said firmly, and placed a kiss on his sunken cheek. He smiled. 

When Bireli came home that night from his job shoeing horses in the town, Corauni told him what had happened. He scratched his head and pondered what they could do. 

“A mask,” he said eventually. “Maybe a mask would help.”

So Corauni stitched little Erik’s first mask. 

The women in the camp were distrustful at first, but as no one fell ill and no other terrible fate befell anyone, they grudgingly accepted that perhaps the child was not a harbinger of woe after all - though they did tend to keep the little family at an arms length ever after. 

Although he was the youngest child in the camp, he was a fast learner. 

By the time he was a year old, he could speak and he asked endless questions which his parents tried their best to answer. 

By the time he was two years old he could read in two languages, and although he was rather limited in writing he could still legibly write both of his names - Camlo and Erik. 

“Why do I have two names, Mama?”

“Because, Camlo - that is how you keep yourself safe from fairy-folk. No one can cast a spell on you if they don’t have your true name! That is why you must always guard your true name, and never tell it to anyone.”

He guarded his true name fiercely. 

It was also in his second year that, after being worn down by Erik’s ceaseless asking for one, Bireli finally carved a pan pipe for him. He was talented on the instrument, practicing at it for hours a day if his parents let him. Nothing fascinated him quite like music - except perhaps for stories. 

He loved sitting around the bonfire and watching the dancers and listening to the stories and the music, even if he and his Mama and Papa did have to sit farther away from everyone than anyone else did. 

Even at home in his varda, his parents regaled him with tales and songs whenever they could. He would undertake any chore, no matter how tedious, just as long he could either be told a story or allowed to sing. 

But life was not entirely happy for little Camlo. 

Though the other Romani children tolerated him, none of them were overly friendly to him, both because he was so young and also so ugly. He frequently felt lonely. His only constant companion was the songs he would make up. 

On day when he was four he parents took him on his first trip into town as a treat, to look at the shop windows and the huge buildings that didn’t even have any wheels on them and he absorbed it all with wide eyes. 

He skipped down the sidewalks, holding the hands of his parents who walked on either side of him. They pointed out many interesting sights to him - “Here is where the animals live, Camlo! That’s where Papa works during the day!”, “Look, Camlo, that’s where Mama sells her knitting!”

His parents had chosen to take him to town at a time when there would be the fewest people out and about, but still there was a handful of people who gave them suspicious looks. 

The little family stopped by a chicken coop near the road, drawn to it by Erik’s pleas to see the many different colors of chickens. 

Although they stayed a respectful distance from the property, the farmer peered around the corner, scowling at them. He took in the sight of Bireli in his fedora and tall boots and vest, of Corauni with her dikhlo headscarf and long, thick braid of hair, her pleated broomstick skirt that went almost to her ankles - and the little child standing between them both, with a mask covering his entire face. 

“Why is that boy wearing a mask?” he snapped loudly. 

The three of them jumped, and quickly tried to leave, but the farmer began to follow them. 

“He’s wearing a mask so know one will know who he is, isn’t that right?” he shouted, beginning to draw a small crowd. “You’ve stolen a child from our town, haven’t you? Gypsies are always stealing children!”

They kept their heads down as they tried to flee, tried to avoid the townspeople who had come out of their houses to gawk at the supposed child-thieves. 

They were caught off guard by someone who appeared from around the corner and snatched little Erik away from them before they could stop the man. 

“Who’s child is this that you’ve stolen? Who-“ he ripped Erik’s mask away and dropped it from his hand, horrified at what he saw. 

A woman nearby screamed when she saw Erik’s face. 

Bireli grabbed Erik in his arms and began to run, Corauni close behind. 

The sound of screams and all the people saying he had been stolen frightened Erik - what were they talking about? Why had they screamed? Tears were rolling down his face. What was happening? The town was supposed to be fun! 

They lost the crowd eventually, but word carried quickly - some said that the horrible couple had stolen a child and worked terrible spells on him, some said they had carved his face themselves, some said he wasn’t a child of the own after all, but was in fact a monster. Either way, it culminated in a mob carrying pitchforks and torches to the Romani camp - but by the time they got there, the camp had moved on. 

It was the first time the entire camp was put in jeopardy by Erik and had to move on quickly, but it was certainly not the last time. 

When he was seven, Corauni discovered him hiding behind the vardo, crying. 

“Camlo! What’s wrong?” Corauni asked, dismayed by the sight of her child covering his masked face with his hands as he sobbed. 

He only cried all the harder. 

“I am a monster!” he wailed, anguished. 

“You are not! Who’s been telling you such things?” she came closer to him, but he shrunk from her. 

“They _showed_ me!”

Her heart sank. 

“Who? Showed you what?” 

But she already knew the answer to to half of her question. 

“The children in town,” he choked on his own tears. “They- they- had a- a reflecting glass- an-and they made- made me take off-“

It had been a day that had started out with such promise - he was in the town because he had tagged along with a few of the older Romani children as they ran errands for their parents, and he had gotten distracted by a village boy his age who was playing a fife. He had stopped to listen to him play - and to offer advice, because the boy’s playing was terrible - when the boy had demanded to know why Erik wore a mask. 

Erik had paused. Why did he wear a mask? He didn’t know. It had been a part of him for as long as he could remember - his mother wore a scarf over her hair, his father wore a hat, and he wore a mask. 

The boy had acted suspicious of him, despite this simple explanation. 

“Take off your mask and show me who you are, then!”

Erik had taken off his mask, and the boy had screamed a shrill scream that made Erik’s blood run cold. What was the matter?! 

The boy’s older brother cane running from the house when he heard the scream. He stopped short and made a disgusted face as he looked at Erik. 

The younger brother ran in the house, and Erik was now confused and upset. 

“What’s wrong?” he asked pathetically. “Why did he run from me?”

“Because you’re ugly!” the older boy nearly shouted. 

Erik had taken a step backwards. 

“What- what-“

“Your face!”

Erik’s brow crinkled. What was wrong with his face? 

“What’s wrong with my face?” Erik had asked, suddenly uncertain. 

“Just look at it!” he gestured. “Haven’t you ever taken a good look at yourself? You look like a monster!”

Erik had gasped. 

“I do not!” he protested. 

The boy ran back into the house, and Erik was nearly about to leave when the boy appeared again, this time holding something in his hand. He held it up, and Erik had seen his unmasked face for the first time. 

He now sat behind the vardo he called home, rocking back and forth and sobbing. Why had no one told him? Why had he not realized before? There were no looking glasses in the camp, something he wasn’t aware was because his father had asked everyone to do away with them lest the child accidentally see himself. Erik had felt his face before, yes, he knew his nose was a little different than the nose on his mask, but he had truly never stopped to think about how his face actually _looked_. This - this was why he had to wear a mask. He was hideous. He was ashamed to admit, even to his mother, that his face had frightened him badly when he first saw it. How could anyone dare to look at him?

Corauni sighed. 

“Come inside the vardo, Camlo, please.”

He nodded, not daring to look at her. 

Of course she wanted him inside - that way no one might see him. 

“Camlo, do you really think you’re a monster?” she asked softly. 

He nodded slowly. How could he think otherwise, after what he saw?

“You know what your name means in our language, don’t you, Camlo?”

He was silent a long moment. 

“Beloved,” he finally murmured, and then a thought occurred to him. “Sometimes it means beautiful...”

Corauni smiled. 

“And that’s the name your father and I chose for you,” she said softly. “Do you know why?”

He shook his head. He really couldn’t understand it. He was the furthest thing from beautiful, really. 

“Because we love you very much, and to us you are beautiful! We wanted to have a son for so very long, and then we had you! Our beloved child... You are clever and funny and kind and good, and all of those things matter so much more than how your face looks,” she beckoned for him to come closer, which he did reluctantly. 

When he was close enough, she removed his mask and kissed his forehead without a hint of hesitation. He began to cry again, suddenly realizing the gravity that this simple gesture she had so often repeated throughout the years actually held. He fell into her arms, and she hugged him. 

He had nearly run out of tears when he thought of something. 

“Mama, but that’s not my real name...”

“We named you Erik after the priest who baptized you - now tell me, can you picture a monster being blessed in a church?”

He couldn’t. 

“Well there you go!” she replied to his silence. “Both of your names are proof, then, that you aren’t a monster at all!

He was silent and reserved for the rest of the day, not even greeting his father when he returned from work. It was as though suddenly everything was viewed in a different light, as though he himself were a different person. What if everyone was just pretending to be kind to him? Was this why the children in the camp didn’t talk to him very much? 

Corauni pulled Bireli aside when he got home and explained to him what had happened. 

“Camlo,” he greeted the sulking boy. “I heard about your little adventure in town.”

He sat down next to his son, who was still refusing to look at him. 

“I heard what you got called, but you mustn’t believe it, my boy - would a monster play such beautiful music as you do? Would a monster help his Papa with the horses, or cheerfully do chores for his Mama like you do?”

Erik shrugged a little. 

“You must never let them define you, Camlo,” his easygoing tone was dropped, now replaced by a firm resolve. “The world will want you to conform to what they view they as, but you must never bow to their pressure. You are the only one who gets to define who you are, Camlo. They will expect a monster, and you will show them a gentleman in its place.”

He waved a hand vaguely as he continued. 

“Some people - some people will never care, even still. They’ll always see a monster. But you must never let their opinions of you change your behavior - or your opinion of yourself. You know who you are, and that is enough. You are a good boy, Camlo,” he clapped a hand on his shoulder. “A good boy with a good heart, and your family loves you. As long as your heart is good, that’s all that matters - let them think what they will, and let them be wrong.”

Erik found he wasn’t quite out of tears yet. 

They ate a dinner of spicy stew that night, his favorite dinner, and as they ate they talked and laughed as they always did over dinner. He looked between them, hopeful. Did they really not care that was so hideous? Had they truly never cared? He went to sleep sad that night, sad at how his perception of the world had changed, but in that sadness he still had the little flame of hope that all was not lost - his mother and father would love him forever. 

Word got around town, however, that the gypsy camp was harboring a demon masquerading as a child, and Bireli’s heart sank when he heard the gossip when he arrived to work the next day. People glanced suspiciously at him - and he found his job as a doctor to the animals at several farms was suddenly no longer needed. 

“You’re from that camp with the Devil’s Child, we don’t want you here!”

The camp moved on a week later.

It was a sadly repeated pattern in many places. Erik would try his best to stay out of view, to keep his mask on, to stay away from the town, but he was a curious child and forgot himself sometimes. 

Sometimes it would be an accident, like when he stooped to help an old lady pick up her dropped groceries and he bumped his mask, causing it to fall to the ground. Sometimes it would happen in a scuffle, like when he grew too incensed to stay quiet after hearing mean words told by other boys about the people in his camp, and the mask was knocked off as the punches were flying. Sometimes it was simply a town too close to the previous one that had heard strange tales of the boy with the mask, saying that he was a corpse brought back to life with black magic. No matter how it happened, Erik’s camp had to move on quickly after such occurrences. He would try his best to avoid the town entirely, but that was nearly impossible, and it was highly boring to simply sit at the camp all day with the babies and the elderly. 

He felt terribly guilty over it all, receiving glances from others in the camp that confirmed his fears that everyone blamed him for having to move yet again. His parents were always understanding over the matter, acting as though it didn’t matter to them in the least, but Erik knew it was his fault. 

Everyone else in the camp knew it was his fault, too, and finally some had had enough. 

One night after another such incident had happened when Erik was ten, a few of the camp elders pulled his parents aside. 

“This is the eighth town this has happened in, Bireli,” the older man sighed. “This can’t keep happening. It’s too dangerous for everyone.”

“We’ll speak with him,” Bireli insisted. “It won’t happen again.”

“It won’t happen again because you won’t be traveling with us anymore!” another man snapped. 

“That’s not fair!” Corauni spoke up. “Camlo is just a child - he’ll learn!”

“Well he hasn’t learned yet...” 

“Give us one more chance, please,” Bireli asked. 

The other men were silent, exchanging glances. 

“One more chance,” they finally agreed. 

Erik sniffled in his hiding spot underneath of a nearby varda. He had heard everything. 

His family was getting kicked out of the camp because of him! He really was wicked! There was something wrong with him, this was proof. 

He pulled off his mask and rubbed at his eyes, trying to choke back the great big sobs that threatened to overtake him. 

His parents should not suffer because of him. His mother was right - it wasn’t fair. It was his fault, after all, and he should be the one to pay the price. 

The camp elders had said they would be given one more chance - well, one was all they needed. Erik would not endanger the camp again, because Erik was going to leave the camp. It was the only way to ensure his mother and father could retain their place in the community. 

They were better off without him. 

No one noticed as he moved like a shadow, pulling a few of his dearest possessions out of his family’s varda - his pan pipe, a few articles of clothing, and a very small assortment of other things - and stole off into the night. He had firmly resolved that he was doing the right thing, that they wouldn’t even miss him. All he did was cause trouble for the camp, anyway. Well, they wouldn’t be bothered by him anymore. 

He moved fast, far too fast for anyone to catch up with, not after the head start he had had. It was nearly an hour later that his parents realized he wasn’t sleeping in his bed. 

By that time, Erik was too far off to hear the panicked and worried voices of Corauni and Bireli and they searched the nearby woods for their beloved son, too far away to hear how his mother wept that he was missing, or the crack in Bireli’s voice as he called out for him to return. He didn’t hear the search party made up of concerned camp elders, either, or the murmurings of the youths as they tried to figure out where little Camlo had gone. 

He never saw how the entire camp mourned the loss of him, how regretful the elders were for nearly driving the little family off, how inconsolable his parents were, how the children who had know him would look around wistfully, wondering where he was. 

He never saw anyone in the camp again, but they never forgot him.


	3. Chapter 3

Erik sat at the far end of the bar in the tavern, hunched over his drink. Save for a few suspicious glances sent his way by the barkeeper, not many people had noticed him. 

He was new in town, something he was used to being - he had never stayed in any one place for too long. At least he hadn’t run into any trouble here, something he knew he couldn’t count on lasting. 

He lifted the glass to his too-thin lips, brushing aside the silk of his mask with a single finger of the same hand that held his drink in an oft-practiced motion. Tonight, it seemed, there was some commotion going on, and he was glad of the distraction that allowed him to eat and drink in relative peace. 

“You hear the King’s proco- proclamation?” a drunk not too far away from Erik asked another man. 

Erik narrowed his eyes at him. While he himself was fond of the occasional indulgence, he despised seeing others overly drunk. 

The man next to him rolled his eyes. 

“ _Everyone_ heard the proclamation.”

Erik was peeved - _he_ hadn’t heard the proclamation, because he’d only been in this little kingdom for less than a day. 

“Why I- I oughta- I got half a mind to try for her myself!” the first drunk sloshed his glass upwards in a clumsy toast. “She’s _beautiful_!”

His companion snickered. 

“You oughta try to form a proper sentence first!”

The drunk furrowed his brow, thinking over the other man’s words. 

“You know what... Kristine wouldn’t talk to me like that...”

“Kristine wouldn’t talk to you at all!”

He scratched his head. 

“Yeah... true...”

His companion threw an arm around his shoulders. 

“We might be far out of the running, but at least we’ll get to see everyone who tries!” he tried to cheer him. “Imagine the kind of talent we’ll see! ‘ _The man who can show me a talent I’ve never seen before_ ’, he says - what a show that’ll be!”

He leaned in coconscpiritoraly, chuckling, and whispered, “Why, I bet well even get to see Miss First Prize ourselves!”

Erik sighed and finished his drink, leaving the appropriate coins on the bar for payment. He turned around and was immediately greeted by a man who was standing far too close, his arms crossed and his face set in a scowl. 

“I don’t like the look of that thing on your back, Mister,” the man drawled. 

Erik blinked. His lute - like the bag that contained all of his belongings - was strapped across his shoulders and hung down over his back. 

He bowed to the man just slightly. 

“Good sir,” he said smoothly. “That puts us on quite equal footing, I believe - I don’t like the look of your face.”

“Wha-!”

Erik dodged the punch with ease. Oh well - time to move on to another town, he supposed. That was to be expected. 

What wasn’t expected was that someone suddenly grabbed him from the side, holding him down while the obnoxious man in front of him wound his arm up to punch Erik squarely in the area his nose should be. Erik’s eyes widened in fear - the punch was going to knock his mask off. 

“Wait!” he cried. “Unhand me, you oaf! Don’t you know who I am?!”

The men paused, glancing at each other, then laughed. 

“You? You look like- like one of them _gypsies_!” one of them said. 

Erik broke away from the cruel grasp on his arm and pulled himself to his full height. 

“ _King_ of the Gypsies!” he said regally, using the term he’d normally never use for himself or his people, but it was the only thing other people understood. “You would treat royalty so shamefully?!”

The men looked abashed and shifted uncomfortably. They hadn’t known this man was a _king_. 

“Sorry,” they muttered, and Erik smirked under his mask - he had yet to encounter anyone who didn’t believe his little fib about being a king. 

The fools didn’t know there was no such thing as a king of the Gypsies, and this was a story that always managed to provide protection in sticky situations such as this. 

“Are you here to see about the King’s daughter?” another man asked, hopeful that they might get to see some strange gypsy magic in the process. 

“What the devil are you talking about?” Erik brushed himself off. 

“You’re not here to win the hand of the princess in the contest that king has announced?”

“Oh! Yes, that... Well, of course I am!”

Their eyes lit up as they all looked at Erik. 

“What are you going to do? What’s your talent?”

Erik glanced back and forth between them all, somewhat nervous. Really, what were they going on about? Talent?

“You’ll see!” he said confidently. “You’ll all see!”

He stalked forward and left the tavern, the men watching him, full of awe in his wake. 

He breathed a sigh of relief as he walked out into the fresh air. That had been a narrow escape, though he’d seen narrower in his fifteen years of wandering. At least there were no bruises or wounds to bandage tonight, which was more than he could say for a number of other incidents over the years. After a glance behind to be certain no one was following him, he let his mind wander to what the men had been talking about. 

He spied a group of people gathered around a a large golden sheet of paper pinned to a wall. He approached them carefully, trying to read what it said. 

“She’s twenty already? My, but it seems just a few years ago that she was born,” a woman sighed to her friend. 

“I can’t believe she’s not married already! Twenty! An old maid!” her friend chuckled. 

“He’s keeps her locked up, you know! How can the poor thing have met anyone if her papa never lets her out? But I don’t blame him, not really - not after what happened with her ma!” the first woman said, tittering. “Imagine if both of them ran out on him!”

“Can’t control a kingdom if he can’t even control his women!” the second woman laughed. 

Erik managed to get close enough to read the paper. 

_By Royal Oder-_  
King Daaé is offering the hand of his only daughter to the man who can perform a talent the likes of which has never been seen before. This contest shall be open to all regardless of class or nationality, shall begin on the first day of her twentieth year, and shall continue until a winner is found. Talents shall be showcased each day from noon to sunset in the royal courtyard.  
Signed, King Daaé 

Erik raised an eyebrow. He briefly wondered if the Romani were included in that invitation, but he honestly didn’t care because he had no intention of trying for her hand. Good heavens - the king had mentioned his own name twice yet hadn’t even bothered to put his daughter’s name once!

He was about to leave it at that when he heard several more people in the little crowd sigh about how beautiful she was. He huffed. She couldn’t be _that_ beautiful. 

He hadn’t even realized he’d muttered those words out loud until a young man looked at him, affronted. 

“You bite your tongue, sir!” The boy acted as though Erik had offended him personally. “She’s more lovely than a rose! More fair than a sunrise! More enchanting than- than a hundred roses!”

Erik rolled his eyes. 

“You already said roses!” he snapped as he pushed past him. “And if she’s so great, why don’t _you_ marry her?”

The young man’s eyes filled with tears. 

“I would if I could, sir, would if I could!”

Erik felt a fleeting concern for the poor lovesick little fool, then quickly forgot. He had enough worries of his own, like where he would sleep that night. 

He found a little inn down the road, and decided to enter. With no camp to go back to, he had no varda to live in and no real place to sleep. Unlike most of the Romani he used to live with, he didn’t mind buildings that were more than one story tall and therefor didn’t mind staying at inns. He had been taught about purity codes and rituals as a child - the lower body was impure and the upper body was pure, and thus it was polluting to have the lower body above the upper body - a situation that was unavoidable in a building with an upper story. Erik cared very little about this anymore - he was already a defiled creature, wasn’t he? What hope had he of ever being pure? Let people walk on the floors above him, it didn’t matter. And if he ended up polluting others by standing above them, well - that didn’t really matter to him either. Why should he go out of his way to care for people who cared so little for him? 

The innkeeper paled a little upon seeing him, and he couldn’t blame the man - he knew his mask frightened people. The black leather that went from the top of his forehead and stopped just below his nose with the few inches of black silk to cover his mouth and chin were an odd sight to see, but he knew his face was even worse to behold. Better to pale at a mask than pass out at his face. People should be thanking him for wearing it! 

“Two nights,” Erik requested, showing his money up front. Two evenings would allow him enough time to see if he wanted to stay or move on - some little towns were more hospitable than others, and he wasn’t sure yet what kind of town this was. 

The man nodded and handed him a key. Erik’s room was on the second floor, small, and not the cleanest, but it was a room and that was all that mattered to him. 

He placed his lute in the corner with care and then flopped onto the bed, exhausted. He had been walking for hours that day and was entirely worn out. He kicked his boots off his aching feet, tossed his hat to the little table, and put his mask on the nightstand, which turned out to be about all he could do before falling asleep. 

He was embarrassed to find he slept far past breakfast the next morning - he had been intending to get up early and go on the street corner and play his lute to earn some coins, but it was nearly lunchtime now. He supposed it was to be expected, really - he hadn’t slept the previous night, instead staying awake on the ferry that brought him down the river to this tiny kingdom, but it still annoyed him to no end. 

He dressed grumpily and grabbed only his coin purse before he ventured out of the inn, planning on visiting the market to buy some foods he could eat in the privacy of his own room. 

On his way to the market he passed two teenage girls who were grinning and giggling, as teen girls often do. 

“Oh, isn’t she dreamy?” the girl on the right sighed. “I hope she stays here even after she’s married!”

“I wish I could look just like her!” her friend nodded eagerly. 

“She’s a national treasure!”

“Her hair!”

“Her eyes!”

“Her skin!”

Erik listened, vaguely interested. This must be the princess everyone was going on about - well, he certainly hoped the girl had hair and eyes and skin, after all. He’d be a little concerned if she didn’t. 

He was about to purchase some fresh fruit at the market when he overheard the fruit vendor talking to the man at the stand next to his. 

“Have ye ever seen such a sight in yer life as Kristine?” he asked, looking off into the distance wistfully. “I’ve ne’er laid eyes on a more lovely lass.”

Erik wanted to gag. He put the fruit back and left. No one could be as beautiful as they were all making her out to be! Really now! It was getting beyond ridiculous! It was almost sickening how they all fawned on her like this... 

Erik was a great lover of beautiful things. He’d sought them out in his many travels, and he would admit he’d seen some amazing sights along the way. But one thing he also knew was that locals always held an over-fondness for some things simply because they was theirs. How many taverns has boasted of having the best drinks, only to have subpar ones, yet still the locals would pick a fight with you for saying so? How many people adored an average looking building simply because it held a special place in their hearts and memories? He’d made a number of treks to locations that people had sworn up and down were gorgeous, only to arrive and be disappointed with the final result. This princess was surely no different. She might be good looking, but there was no way she could warrant such amazement and awe. 

Erik was headed back to his room at the inn. He would be alone there, at least, and there was something comforting about being the smartest person in the room. 

But then he hesitated - it _was_ almost noon... And he was already out... Why not have a look at this girl? And then he could have a laugh at all the poor fools who were so head-over-heels in love with her so-called great beauty. 

“Excuse me,” he asked a person on the street. “Can you point me towards the royal courtyard?”

The royal courtyards were packed with people, and up on a raised platform sat two throne chairs. There were a number of royal guards keeping the crowd in check, and ushering the next performers to stand before the platform and be judged. 

Erik scooted in between people in the crowd, making his way to the front where he could see better. 

The first performer caught his eye. It was a man doing a dance that Erik thought was rather painful to watch - no rhythm, no discernible skill at all. He almost pitied the man. 

“Get out!” the old king bellowed, and two guards took the formerly dancing man away. 

Erik looked up at the king. He was... not on the good looking side, though Erik couldn’t fault him that. He looked vaguely annoyed, especially considering he’d only seen one contestant so far and hadn’t even let him finish. 

Another man stepped forward and began reciting a poem he’d written himself. Erik wanted to make snoring noises as he blathered on an on in the most simple rhyming scheme anyone could come up with. The king huffed as he listened, disinterested. 

Erik glanced at the princess before looking back at the boring man. He froze. His eyes darted to her again. 

She- she- 

Was _beautiful_. 

He stared with unblinking eyes, losing track of time. His mind tried to make sense of it - her features were deceptively regular looking on their own, but somehow they combined in a way that left her stunning. There was simply no other word for it - he had never seen a woman so perfect. 

Why, the girl was at least as charming as five _hundred_ roses! 

She was so beautiful it nearly angered him. How dare such beauty exist in a world as crummy as this one? But he couldn’t look away. He had been to very many places and seen a good number of things he would venture to actually call _beautiful_ and truly mean it, but now - she was at the top of the list. 

Her features looked delicate and refined, her golden hair nearly shone under the shaded canopy on the platform, her posture elegant and regal as she sat with her hands folded on her lap and looked impassively out at the crowd. 

Something struck Erik about her eyes. It wasn’t their keen blue that caught his attention, though he didn’t think he’d ever seen such a lovely blue before - no, it was the fact that they were ringed in red, as though she’d been crying recently. 

Erik watched as would-be suitor after suitor presented a skill to king, only to be turned away. Apparently not everyone shared the common sense of the two drunks in the tavern the previous night - nearly every skill Erik watched was lackluster in some way, presumably presented either because they thought more highly of their talents than they ought, or because they wanted to try despite knowing that they stood only a very small chance. 

At last a tall, handsome blond man came forward. He was charming enough, Erik supposed, though he cared very little for the man’s thin mustache that only served to make him look ridiculous. 

The man bowed deeply to the king, and as he rose he blew a kiss to the princess. Her lips quirked into a little smile, the first emotion Erik seen her show all day. 

Erik shifted uncomfortably. _Of course_ she’d like this man - she probably wouldn’t even dare to glance Erik’s way at all. 

With a grand flourish the man produced a little lyre from behind his back, and Kristine’s eyes widened. He began to play a tune and sing a song. 

While this was happening, an idea was growing in Erik’s mind like a weed. Kristine would never choose someone as ugly as Erik - _but Kristine wasn’t choosing_. The king has said she’d be married to whoever won the contest. No woman would ever willingly agree to marry Erik, but this- 

This might actually be his only chance to marry. 

Certainly winning a bride in a contest of skill was the only way he’d ever get a wife. While he often scoffed at love and scorned the very idea of marriage, the truth was he was lonely. He was a young man like any other, with the same hopes and desires as them... If he mocked the thought of marriage, it was only because he feared it would never be his. 

But if he won the contest... Kristine would have to marry him. She couldn’t say no! But he wouldn’t be cruel to her - she would come to love him one day, he was certain! He’d be gentle as a lamb with her! She might fear him at first, but she would learn to love him eventually. All he needed was to be given a chance! And this could be that chance...

Erik was nearly giddy just thinking about it. He was far more talented than anyone he had seen so far! He would make this man look like a mere schoolboy picking out random notes on an instrument he’d never played before! Wait till they heard Erik! Wait till they heard- 

He was so lost in his spiral of smug joy that he didn’t see the king growing enraged. 

The old king shook with fury, speechless as the man continued to sing and play. 

“What is the meaning of this?!” he finally roared. “Who dares come before me and _sing_?!”

The young man froze, terrified. 

“Guards!” the king screamed, standing and pointing an accusing finger at the man. “ _His head on a pike_!”

The young man fell to his knees, overcome with terror and confusion as the guards nervously stepped forwards. 

Princess Kristine burst into tears. 

“Daddy, no! Please!” she begged. “He didn’t know! He’s probably not from around here! Please don’t!”

The young man swallowed hard, guards on either side of him waiting to see what the king would decree. 

“I’m sorry, Your Majesty!” he began to babble. “I’m sorry! I didn’t know! I’m not from about here, I swear! I’m from a different kingdom, please, I didn’t know!”

“Please, please, _please_ ,” Kristine pulled on her father’s sleeve and wept. “Please don’t do this to him...”

The king sat back down and glared at the man. He waved a dismissive hand at him. 

“Life in prison,” he said gruffly, and at this order the guards dragged the young man off to the dungeons. 

Erik stared in shock at what had just happened. What had set the old man off? Even more importantly - Kristine was _crying_. He was lanced with compassion for the poor dear, and he longed to fall at her feet and wipe every tear of hers away, to right every wrong that might cause her to feel pain. He wanted to take her under his wing and protect her from every harsh thing in life and ensure that she never had reason to cry ever again. 

How often was this something that happened to her? And caused by her own father! Erik burned with the urge to give the old man a swift kick in the pants for what he’d done to his daughter. What was the old man’s problem?

Far beyond thoughts of finally gaining a wife, he considered for the first time that perhaps he really should enter the contest, if only to free her from the king. 

The next words uttered by the king made up his mind, however. 

“Just in case there are any others here today from foreign lands,” he nearly spit the words out. “Please be aware that _music is forbidden in my kingdom_!”

Forbidden? Erik loved a challenge.


	4. Chapter 4

After the outburst over the poor boy sentenced to life in the dungeon, Kristine fell back into her passive state, her face blank. 

Erik stayed until sunset, until the crowd of onlookers were ushered away by guards. He watched as the old king left the platform and Kristine followed him, her clenched jaw the only sign of emotion on her face which was otherwise a mask. He wandered back to his room at the inn, feeling strange all over. He knew that from this day on his life had changed forever. 

He tossed and turned in his bed that night, unable to find any rest. Was Kristine sleeping okay? Was she still upset about the young man whom she had so narrowly saved? And what kind of monster would ban music? 

All he knew was he had to see Kristine again. He no longer scoffed at the villagers who swooned over her so - if anything, they were guilty of underselling just how wonderful she really was. He felt sick, like he might die because of his love for her. He had to do something. 

By the time the sun had risen, he had a plan. 

He went down to the innkeeper and tossed the key to him, smirking at the man’s confused look. 

“I’ve found other living arrangements,” Erik told him with a dismissive wave of his hand. “I won’t be staying here, but you can keep the fee I already paid!”

Hoisting his sack of belongings behind him, Erik left the inn and headed towards the castle. 

Erik prided himself on his morals - he was a very moral man. If his morals didn’t line up with other people’s morals - or if his own set of morals just so happened to shift depending on the situation he found himself in, well- did that really make him any less moral? 

For example, Erik would never break into someone’s home. If, however, he happened to find a door or a window left unattended and unlocked, could he be blamed for going through it? Erik would never spy on someone, but if he just happened to be in a room and no one noticed him there, was that Erik’s fault? 

It was a series of similar upright and ethical choices that led Erik to finding the secret rooms and passageways in the king’s castle, and it was that shining virtue of his that allowed him to observe the king in his own home, completely unnoticed. 

He watched as the old man ate dinner in his room, alone and silent expect for when he barked orders at a servant. After dinner was over, he sat in his chair facing the fire and stared into it for what felt like hours. It unnerved Erik a little. Wasn’t he going to _do_ anything? He was tempted to go and find Kristine instead - it would be a delight to watch her do nothing - but he knew the king was the one he needed to impress, so the king was the one he needed to study. 

By the time the old man got in his bed and pulled the blankets up to his chin before promptly falling asleep, Erik had learned nothing at all about him, other than he was old and boring and presumably tired. 

Erik prowled the castle looking for the princess but couldn’t find her. He ended up in the kitchens where he helped himself to whatever he pleased before he found a hidden room he would call his own for a while. 

He explored the castle until noon, at which point he left to join the crowd in the courtyard. He barely glanced at subpar performers who were competing, instead staring up at with a lovesick expression hidden by his mask. 

She looked bored. He wondered if this appearance of boredom was hiding nerves - for how could she not be nervous? At any moment the king might decide he liked whatever sap was standing before him, and then Kristine’s life would never be the same, married off to some brute she’d never even met. 

Once the sun set, he followed behind them like a shadow and crept into the secret entrance of the castle. He watched the king again, but gained no further clues as to what would please the old man. Once he was asleep Erik left to explore the rest of the tunnels behind the walls that he hadn’t had a chance to look down yesterday. 

One particularly long and narrow secret hallway culminated in a dead end with large mirror that went from the bottom of the floor to the top of the ceiling and faced outwards. Erik paused behind this a moment. 

There was a room on the other side, but he was unable to get in it unless he could open the mirror somehow. The room was sparsely decorated, a divan in front of the window at one end, a little bookshelf with a few books on it, some scattered papers, a wilted plant, and a handful of other odds and ends Erik couldn’t make out from his vantage point. 

He was about to leave and return the way he had come when suddenly the door inside the room opened, and the princess entered. 

Erik sucked in a breath, barely believing his luck. He stayed frozen where he was standing, even though he was certain that she couldn’t see him. 

Kristine closed the door quietly and locked it behind her. She slipped the key into the pocket of her gown as she went to sit on the divan. 

She sat there for a while, her arms wrapped around herself, her shoulders hunched as she stared out at the night sky. She sighed deeply and stood, beginning to pace a little. 

Suddenly she froze. Then Erik heard it, too - a woman’s voice calling Kristine’s name, a voice Erik recognized as belonging to one of the servants. 

Kristine hurried to the door, unlocking it and slipping outside. 

Erik felt mightily disappointed. He had wanted to be around her for longer! Was this her private room? Perhaps it was a secret room just as the tunnels he occupied were secret - perhaps that was why she had looked worried when the servant was looking for her. 

Erik stayed by the mirror for the rest of night, even falling asleep there. If there was any chance that Kristine might return, he wanted to be there. 

The next day he spent in a similar manner, waiting by the mirror until noon, watching the contest, and then sneaking back into the castle - only this time, instead of being bored by the king’s pathetic routine, Erik went straight behind the mirror in hopes of seeing Kristine some more. 

His hopes were rewarded when, not long after he arrived, she stole in yet again. 

She huffed after she had locked the door, shaking her head and rolling her eyes. Erik was enamored with hitherto unseen show of emotion - and not just any emotion! The girl seemed to have just as much disgust towards the world as he did, and it excited him. 

She shrugged off her finely embroidered overcoat and tossed it to rest on the divan, then picked at the pins holding her hennin hat to her head before placing them on the little shelf and taking her hat off. All the while, she was humming. 

Once free of her courtly garments, she walked to the window and took a deep breath of the crisp air. A smile crossed her face for the first time that day. 

She began to sing. 

Erik had never heard anything like her voice. It was moving, it was ethereal, it was- 

Untrained. 

She hit a sour note but kept going. 

Erik found it jarring, but was placated by the rest of her song. 

Until it happened again. 

“You’re flat!” 

He threw his voice, a last minute consideration. He couldn’t allow her to keep making that mistake, but he also couldn’t betray his hiding place. 

Kristine stopped singing. She stared at the wilted plant with wide eyes. Had it truly spoken to her? 

Her eyes darted around the room, all sorts of ideas filling her mind. No one else knew about her secret room - or did they? But surely not anyone from the royal court, because none of them would react that way upon finding her engaged in a forbidden act. Nonetheless - _someone_ was there. 

She straightened her shoulders, jutting her chin out as she searched the room carefully. 

“Who are you?” her clear voice rang out, bold in its demand. 

He said the first lie that came to mind. 

“I am an angel, sweet girl,” he replied from behind the mirror. 

Her eyes darted to his hiding place, a grin forming on her face. 

“What a wicked man you are!” she teased. “You’re not an angel! No, you sound more like a ghost.”

“I’m not really wicked,” Erik pressed himself against the glass, wanting to be closer to her. “Stay and talk to me, and you’ll see.”

She raised an eyebrow. 

“Oh? Is that so, Mister Phantom? And what, pray tell, would we talk about?”

“About music. About anything!”

She crinkled her nose. 

“And why should I speak with someone so rude, someone who calls my voice _flat_?”

“Oh, I’m not being rude,” Erik rushed to say. “It’s simply true, that’s all!”

Her eyes widened. 

“Well! I can’t help it, you know. I haven’t had any training, you see.”

“I could train you,” Erik offered, his heart hammering in his chest. “I could teach you to sing.”

“Singing is forbidden,” she sat primly on the divan, still facing the mirror. “The audacity of a man to hide behind my mirror in the passageways commissioned by my mother, insult my skills, and then offer to teach me something that’s punishable by death! You’re either the bravest man in the world or the stupidest. Aren’t you afraid I’ll turn you in to the king?”

“You won’t,” Erik said confidently. 

She raised an eyebrow and crossed her arms. 

“And what makes you so sure?”

“Because if you did, the king would know you’d been singing, too.”

She paused for a long moment. 

“You’re quite a clever one, Mister Ghost. What’s your name?”

“I told you my name. The Angel of Music.”

She tried to frown in a disapproving manner, fighting against the smoke that wanted to form on her face. 

Erik cleared his throat. 

“You may call the Phantom, if you prefer,” he conceded. 

“And just why should I take instruction from you, Phantom?”

“I’m a highly skilled musician!”

“What kind of a highly skilled musician hides in walls?”

“The kind of musician who is in a kingdom that’s banned music!”

“Well, let’s hear _you_ sing, then.”

“Why, Princess!” he sounded scandalized. “The audacity of you to ask something so illegal of me! Are you trying to trap me, my dear?”

She laughed out loud in joy, and Erik had never heard a sweeter sound. 

“Sing for me!” she insisted. “Or I’ll turn you out of my castle!”

Erik began to sing the song she herself had sung earlier, only with each note in perfect pitch. 

Kristine gasped, her gaze unblinking and eager as she stared at the mirror. 

“Oh- oh-! Will you teach me? Please?”

“Tell me why music is forbidden, first,” Erik asked, but he knew he’d teach her regardless - he would do anything for her. 

She smiled a wry little smile, ducking her head a little. 

“About six years ago, you see, my mother - the queen - well, she, ah, she ran off with the royal musician... She actually wanted to take me with them when they left, but their plan got botched, and I had to stay behind. Daddy has been terrified ever since that they’ll send someone to come for me, or even that I’ll run off to join them... He never lets me go anywhere outside of the castle if he’s not there with me. And music was strictly forbidden after that - it infuriates him to hear anything that reminds him of how the queen scorned him in such a way.”

“Why did she run off with the musician?”

Kristine gave a little shrug. 

“He was kind to her, which was more than the king was. And they were in love. But the king is fiercely jealous, and his pride is easily wounded. He’d never have allowed her to simply break the marriage off and leave him, but not because he loved her... If they had been discovered, he would have had both of them executed. So they had no choice but to run.”

She chewed on her lip a moment, silent and deep in thought. 

“I’m glad she’s free,” she finally continued. “I miss her, but living here, in this castle... Under his thumb... That’s no life at all.”

Erik made a sympathetic noise. 

She lifted her eyes back to the mirror. 

“So that’s why music is banned, because it mocks him of his loss. And that’s why I’m _flat_ , because I’ve never had any music lessons. So, will you teach me?”

“Aren’t you afraid of what the king will do if he finds out?” 

“This is a secret room - not even my maids know it’s here. I’m quite sure no one will hear us in here, and besides-“ she twirled a golden curl around her finger, her sly smile returning. “What Daddy doesn’t know won’t hurt him.”

Erik was grinning behind the mirror. He rubbed his hands together in anticipation. 

History was about to repeat itself. 

“My dear girl,” his low chuckle wrapped around her and made her shiver. “You are quite right, I believe.”


	5. Chapter 5

There was a pause in their conversation, and Erik could scarcely believe he was truly here with her. Then, something occurred to him. 

“Princess, I’m afraid I’ve entirely forgotten my manners,” Erik breathed. “It was your birthday a few days ago, I believe, and I have neglected to wish you a happy birthday!”

The smile on her face faded, replaced with a solemn look. She averted her eyes from the mirror. 

“What’s so happy about a day that signifies you’re old enough for your father to trade you in exchange for a few parlor tricks?” she asked, her voice bitter. “Do you know how humiliating it is to have to sit up there like a prize waiting to be awarded? To be reminded that my life is fated to be at the whims of an old man who’s never cared for anyone but himself?”

Erik was at a loss. What a chatty girl, especially considering they’d just met. But his own heart ached to hear the words she used to describe her life. All the more reason he should win the contest and free her! 

But he didn’t need to reply, because she continued on. 

“That’s why I sing, you know. He can control where I go and who I see, he can even control who I wed - but he’ll never be able to control all of me. Not my heart, or my mind, or my soul.”

“All three very important factors in singing,” Erik offered, and she smiled. 

“What would like in return, as payment for my lessons?” she asked. 

“Oh, I don’t need any payment,” he said earnestly. “Just being around you, just hearing you sing - these are payment enough.”

She tilted her head. 

“Why don’t you come out from behind the mirror?”

Erik was silent a long moment. He was loath to lie to her, but even more loath to tell her the truth. 

“There is one payment I will accept from you, Kristine - I must never come out from behind the mirror. You must never look upon me.”

It was Kristine’s turn to be silent. She studied mirror as though if she only looked hard enough she could see him. Finally she nodded. 

“Okay,” she agreed. 

He breathed a sigh of relief. 

And just like that, he became her teacher. He met with her there every night, and sometimes in the mornings as well, and under his careful tutelage her voice soared to glorious new heights. 

But even more than that - he became her friend, her confidant. They didn’t always sing, sometimes instead they would simply talk. She had only her maids to talk with, and Erik was a very welcome change from their company. 

Sometimes, especially during their first few weeks together, they would mock and deride the many suitors they had seen that day. 

“They just keep coming!” said an exasperated Kristine one evening. “Goodness, I would have thought the world had run out of men by now!”

“Well, I can hardly blame them, my dear,” Erik chuckled. “You are an exceptionally beautiful young woman, after all.”

She shot a reproachful look at the mirror. 

“But that’s _all_ they know about me,” she frowned. “That’s the only reason they want to marry me - but I am so much more than my looks. They don’t care about who I really am underneath how I look.”

It occurred to Erik for the first time that perhaps beauty could be a curse in the same way ugliness was. 

But as more time went on and no true contender for her hand appeared, they both were able to relax a little more. Her boredom while watching the men vying for her grew less feigned and more authentic - with so many already rejected, the danger of her suddenly being married off seemed to grow less each day. Her father wanted to be entertained, and once he awarded her to someone his show would surely be over. She found as much comfort in this as she could, and even more comfort in the presence of her strange tutor. 

He was a strict teacher, often demanding at times, and on occasion they were both prone to fits of yelling but these always ended in fits of laughter and apologies when they realized how ridiculous they were being. When he wasn’t teaching her, he would sing to her and play his lute, which she adored. When they didn’t feel like singing, he would tell her stories - and he knew such a great many stories. She thought for sure he could tell a different story every night for a thousand nights and still not have told every story he knew. He always made the voices for each character different and it delighted her to no end. 

When he wasn’t teaching it singing or storytelling, he was listening. He thought he could listen to her until the end of time. She found it easy to tell him anything - her secret hopes and fears, her dreams, her nightmares. He always listened to her, and she always felt safe after having told him. The world might rage on outside that secret door with its trials and tribulations, but in that room she had nothing to fear, nothing to fret over. 

Erik had made the choice to move his small amount of belongings into the space behind the mirror so that he could always be there for her. He had made casual mention of it one day and it seemed to dawn on her for the first time that he actually slept in the walls of the castle. 

“Oh,” she was surprised. “Are you just sleeping on the cold, hard floor?”

“I have a few blankets,” he shrugged, even though she couldn’t see him. 

She looked down shyly, twisting her hands together.

“Sometimes I sleep on the divan, you know...”

Erik paused a moment. 

“Princess, if you wish me to give you privacy-“

“No! No, that’s not what I meant... What I meant to say, was- well, _you_ could sleep on the divan, if you wanted.”

Erik said nothing. Her face turned pink in the ensuing silence. 

“It’s very comfortable...” she offered, clearly embarrassed. 

“I’m sure it is, my dear,” Erik finally found his tongue. “But then where would you sleep when you wished to stay here?”

Kristine went from pink to red and began to pace a little, mumbling half formed noises as she picked at the hems on her sleeves. 

“I’m quite certain it’s capable of holding two people, at least I _think_ it is...” she squeaked, and Erik nearly choked on his own breath. 

Although the exchange was proof of the new feelings beyond just friendship that were starting to form between them, he never took her up on the offer, too terrified of the thought that she’d see his mask and ask him to take it off. 

But they shared a night of nearly the same sort of intimacy not long after. 

It was in the middle of the night that Erik awoke to sound of the little door being opened. He was startled at first, but quickly remembered that even if the room was found, he still couldn’t be seen. 

But it was Kristine. Wrapped in her long white dressing gown, dragging a blanket and a pillow with her, her face tear stained and her body trembling. 

“Angel,” she cried weakly. “Angel, are you up?”

Panic shot through Erik. Was she hurt?

“Of course, my dear, I’m awake! What ever is the matter, poor dear?”

“Do you mind if I stay here a little while?” she sniffled.

“You may stay as long as you wish, Kristine.”

She threw the pillow and blanket on the divan, which she then pushed against the wall, right underneath of the mirror. As the hidden room behind it was raised two feet higher than the floor of the room it looked out on, it made both of them right next to each other when she sat down on the divan, divided only by the thin glass. 

“Are you there?” she asked anxiously, scooting closer to the mirror. 

“I’m here,” he soothed. “What happened?”

“I had a nightmare,” she whimpered. 

“Oh?” 

He longed to spring out from behind the mirror and hold her in his arms, to let her know that she was safe now and he’d always keep her safe no matter what. 

“Mm,” she nodded. “I dreamt that someone won the contest, but I didn’t want to marry him. I tried to tell Dady but I- I couldn’t speak at all! I’d lost my voice... And I thought I’d never sing again. And I’d never get to talk to you again, either. It was awful.”

“It was just a dream, Kristine, it’s okay.”

She placed her palm against the mirror, and a second later Erik pressed his hand to the same place. 

Her wide eyes studied the glass, looking at her own reflection but trying to look through it, the tears on her cheeks drying. 

“I wish it was you,” she whispered so low that Erik almost didn’t hear her. “I wish it was you who would win the contest.”

“Kristine-“ he breathed, her words causing his mind to reel. 

She leaned her forehead against the mirror and closed her eyes, her last secret finally laid bare before him. 

“I wish it was, too,” he whispered back to her, and though she didn’t move or open her eyes, she smiled. 

She fell asleep there like that, leaning against the glass, against the glass that Erik was pressed against, but Erik stayed awake the entire night. He watched her sleep and his chest ached with longing. 

She loved him. 

Or at least, she thought she did. She loved what she had constructed of him in her mind, but would she love him once she laid eyes on him? He didn’t think he could bear to discover the answer to that, for he feared he already knew what it was. 

He loved her, that much he was certain of. Not just the infatuation that had begun upon seeing her, either - once upon a time she had told him that she was more than just her looks, her appearance, and she was - and he was in love with all of those things about her, her opinions and thoughts, her kindness and humor, her hopes and fears. It had been only over two months that they spent together, but he already knew he was deeply, irrevocably in love with Kristine Daaé. 

But that was so very easy for him to say - her face was as beautiful as her soul. Kristine might have fallen in love with his soul, but she didn’t yet know about his face. As much as he wanted to pretend otherwise, he knew it would change things if she knew. 

He stayed there like that until the dawn, pretending that she really did love him, that his face didn’t matter, and that there was no glass between them. But the sun rose, and the dream faded, as all dreams do. 

But perhaps it didn’t fade entirely. The next day, Erik asked Kristine what she thought the king was looking for in a winner, and she thought about this. 

“He wants something magical,” she finally decided. “Something he’s never seen before... He wants to believe there’s still magic in the world - or rather, he desperately wants to be proven wrong, because he believes there _isn’t_ any magic left in the world.”

“Magic,” Erik echoed, deep in thought. 

“If anyone can do it,” she lowered her eyes demurely. “I know that my dear Phantom can.”

Erik couldn’t help the grin that formed on his face at her words. They would figure out something to wow the old man, together - but that be an undertaking for another time. His mind was too consumed in what she’d just called him. 

_Her dear Phantom._

The fact remained that she still didn’t know his real name, but it hardly mattered to her. She’d often refer to him as her Ghost, her Phantom, and, when she was trying to flatter him (or when she was sharing an intimate moment with him), her Angel. It was good enough for her, for now, but the curiosity still was there. 

She lazed across the divan one morning as the early sunlight slowly came in through the window, illuminating the motes of dust in the air. 

“I wish you’d tell me your name,” she glanced up at the glass of the mirror as she posed the request she had made so many times before. 

Erik leaned his head against the glass and sighed. With a single finger he traced the outline of her behind the mirror as he’d so often done before. 

His name, the thing he’d guarded so tirelessly for his entire life. Only his parents and the priest who had baptized him knew it. All kinds of terrors could befall someone who was careless with their name. No one had ever called him by his name before. He had dozens of aliases, of titles, nicknames, epithets... It was his way of staying safe in an often dangerous world. If the princess had his name, the power she would have over him would be untold. 

She sighed a little and closed her eyes, letting the sun warm her face, her book of poetry in her hand but forgotten. 

“Erik.”

Her eyes fluttered open, surprised. She hadn’t expected him to answer, just as he hadn’t answered her any other time. She looked up at the mirror. 

“My name is Erik.”

Didn’t she already hold untold power over him? She already held his very heart in her hands, what more was his name? 

She sat up, giving him a grateful and touched look. He had finally told her, and it seemed to him that the enormity of his gesture was not lost on her. 

“ _Erik_ ,” she rolled the strange syllables around on her tongue, trying out the foreign word. 

His heart stuttered to hear that name on her perfect, smiling lips, spoken with such tender love. 

“Thank you, Erik,” she said sincerely. 

“I am always at your service, Princess,” he replied. 

She smiled widely for a moment, but then her gaze turned serious and pensive. She twisted her hands together. 

“Erik,” she said, her voice yearning. “Erik, I want to see you. Please.”


	6. Chapter 6

_Erik, I want to see you._

The words hung in the air between them. 

“Kristine-“ he warned. 

She blinked back tears. She knew it had been the one thing he’d asked of her - to never look upon him. In a moment of weakness, she had broken their deal. Would he leave her now that she had asked?

“I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I’m sorry - please don’t leave me.”

Erik’s heart sank. Leave her? As if he ever could!

“I won’t leave you, dear, it’s okay.”

She nodded. 

And he didn’t leave her - they continued their lessons and visits just as before, and his continued presence emboldened her to ask again. 

“I really do wish I could I see you, Erik,” she said one night as she looked out at the crescent moon in the dark sky. 

“You don’t know what you’re asking, Kristine,” he sighed. 

She had frowned and nodded and dropped the subject, but she was determined to learn what she didn’t know about the question. 

She tried again one early morn, when she was laying on her divan, fingers skating an idle pattern over the surface of the mirror. 

“Sometimes I think I’m going mad, you know,” she said. 

“Oh? How so?” he was laying on the floor next to her, his eyes following her fingertips. 

“Because you’re just a voice,” she said simply. “Because I have such very long conversations with you, and have for so very long now... But I’ve never even seen you. Sometimes I think that maybe you’re just in my head. Maybe you’re a Phantom after all.”

“Oh, Kristine.”

She smiled. 

“What’s your favorite flower, Erik?” she asked, changing the subject. 

Soon the wish to see him became a nightly request. After a full week of her asking every night, Erik came to expect the question. It pained him to have to turn her down each time, but he truly didn’t believe she’d be able to handle the sight of his unmasked face. In all of his life, his face had marred and tainted every interaction with others - he was beyond hesitant to allow that to happen with Kristine. 

It was very late at night when they finished a long conversation about the structure of music. She hadn’t yet asked, and Erik was curious how she would pose the question this time. But it seemed she might actually not bring it up. He felt conflicted about that - he didn’t like having to deny her request, but he had to admit, being asked _was_ rather flattering, in a way. 

They had lapsed into a comfortable silence, Kristine putting away a few papers she had been drawing on and folding the blanket that was on the divan. He watched her curiously. 

“Aren’t you going to ask?” he finally said.

She ducked her head, smiling wryly. 

“Am I so predictable, then?” 

“No! But you _have_ asked every day, my dear,” he reminded her. 

She smoothed out the folded blanket, considering her words. 

“Is it so unusual a request, to want to see the man I love?” she didn’t look up at the mirror. 

“Kristine, dearest-“ he began, but she stood suddenly and cut him off before he could continue. 

“But it’s probably for the best, really.” 

“What do you mean?”

“Well, Daddy would kill you if he found out,” she told him, nonchalantly looking anywhere in the room except for the mirror. 

“He would?”

“Oh, yes. It’s bad enough that you’ve snuck in here and taught me music and talked to me and slept next to me, but if there’s one thing that can redeem all that, it’s that you’ve never really been in the same room as me. You might be lucky, he might be kind and only put you in the dungeon for the rest of your life. But if you came out from behind the mirror... Oh! I shudder to think of what he’d do.”

“What would he do?” Erik demanded, and Kristine hid a little smile. 

“He’d kill you, of course. To sneak past him and do all those things? And _then_ to actually be in the same room with me, where you could _touch me_ and do _all sorts of things_?” she shook her head and began to walk to the door. “He wouldn’t just kill you for that, he’d make an example out of you. He’d flay the flesh from your bones... He’d tear you limb from limb... He’d string you up in the courtyards where everyone could what would happen to the man who was insolent enough to lay a finger on the daughter of the king. Goodnight, Erik.”

“Goodnight, Kristine,” he echoed, pressing against the mirror to get one last glimpse of her as she left. 

His mind turned her words over and over. So the old man thought he could just string Erik up, did he? The king wasn’t the boss of him! No one told Erik what to do or where to go! Why, if Erik wanted to touch Kristine, no one was going to stop him! Except, of course, for Kristine... But still, how dare the old man stick his nose into Erik and Kristine’s business like that! If only there was a way they could truly meet without her knowing about his face... He stayed up all night considering it. 

Kristine knew her plan had worked when, the following night, she entered into the room and saw a thick strip of black silk placed on the divan. 

“If you put this on, Kristine-“ his words stuck in his throat, and she looked from the gift to the mirror, his next words more steady and commanding. “Put the blindfold on, Kristine.”

She picked it up and settled it comfortably around her eyes, trying it in a bow at the back of her head. Her fingers trembled and her heart fluttered. It was finally happening - they would finally be together. 

He watched nervously as she affixed the blindfold, his palms sweating. He prayed he didn’t simply pass out before he even opened the mirror. 

She stood there in the middle of the room, facing the mirror, her hands clutching each other in front of her as she straightened her shoulders and fixed her sightless gaze on the surface of the mirror. 

“I’m ready,” she tilted her head up, just managing to keep the tremble out of her voice, but Erik could sense it even still. 

He tried to swallow but his throat was too dry. He hesitated just a moment longer before he opened the mirror, taking time to appreciate the amount of trust she so clearly had in him. 

He almost dropped the glass panel once it was removed, and he cursed his sudden lack of finesse but he counted himself lucky that he caught it in time and Kristine was none the wiser. 

She flinched ever so slightly as his boots struck the floor. She could feel her pulse in her throat as the footsteps slowly but surely drew closer, and she held her breath in anticipation. 

Erik felt as if he were stepping into a dream. Nearly three months together, but their games of make believe were at an end now - there could be no returning from this point. 

He approached her slowly to give her time to change her mind, making sure his normally silent footfalls were audible so as not to frighten her. He hesitated once more when he was within reaching distance, suddenly feeling shy. 

“Are you sure?” he murmured. 

She gave a single nod, and when he hesitated even still, she whispered an almost silent “ _Yes_.” 

He reached his hands out and placed them on her upper arms, and she sucked in a sharp breath.

“ _Oh-_ oh, you’re real, you’re _real_ ,” and she surged forward to kiss him, her hands flying up to find either side of his face. 

Erik’s eyes widened, and in an instant he saw what she was about to do. He grabbed her wrists and pushed her back, keeping her at an arm’s length from him. 

“Kristine- no! You mustn’t touch my face, not at all!” 

Her brow crinkled in confusion, but she nodded her agreement, and though Erik loosened his hold he still didn’t release her. 

“You can’t kiss me, Kristine,” he said gravely. “And I can’t kiss you.”

If he kissed her, she’d surely feel how thin his lips were, but what’s more - she’d feel his mask brushing against her skin, and if he took the mask off, sooner or later she would notice his lack of a nose. 

“Hold me, then,” she pleaded, and brought one of his hands up to her own face instead, kissing his wrist. 

The gesture surprised him, causing him to let go of her own wrists, and she grabbed his hand instead, pressing another kiss to the palm before placing and holding his hand to her cheek. 

He nearly sobbed. To be treated so tenderly by her, a princess, after a lifetime of kicks and harsh words and suspicious glares from the entire world...

He pulled her close, reveling in the sensation of her. She had promised to not touch his face, but he had made no such vow to her. He was mesmerized by the ability to finally touch her after having seen her for so long, and he cupped both hands around the sides of her face, fighting the urge to bring her lips to his. With a growing grin he let his fingers caress her delicate skin instead, trailing them over her cheeks and brow and chin, finally tapping a gentle fingertip to the end of her little nose that delighted him so. She beamed up at him as he let his hands explore, her own hands feeling the shape of his arms before moving up to his shoulders. He flinched and pulled back just slightly, afraid her hands were too close to his neck, to his mask. 

“I won’t,” she assured him softly. “I won’t touch your face. I just want to feel you.”

She tried to form an idea of what he looked like while running her hands down his back and up his chest. He was tall, and thin and wiry - he had muscles but she could feel his bones underneath of them in places - he seemed to be all limbs and sharp angles, and she found this rather endearing. He seemed to have an odd manner of dress, and she wished she wasn’t blindfolded simply so she could get a look at his clothing - loose sleeves that billowed before cinching right at the wrists, a sleeveless jacket that seemed to be finely embroidered with florals. She wondered, briefly, where he was from. 

Although he had been able to see her perfectly fine the entire time, he couldn’t help letting his own hands wander her form. The smoothness of her silk dress only enhanced the feeling of her under his hands. His breath stuck in his throat at how warm and soft she was. 

Her questing hand reached his hip, and he jerked away. A smile quirked on her lips. 

“Erik, are you frightened of me?”

“N-no,” he stuttered. 

She tilted her head. 

“Are you frightened of my father finding out?”

“No!” he frowned. “I just- I don’t wish to frighten _you_.”

She shook her head, smiling. 

“But I’m not frightened. You could never frighten me, Erik.”

He swallowed hard and took her by the hand, walking her to the divan. 

She eagerly followed him, but she didn’t want to simply sit next to him. She moved to sit on his lap, but hesitated a moment. 

“May I?” she asked quietly, and Erik pulled her the rest of the way down. 

Once she was settled there, he cradled her head to his chest and held her there - both because it felt nice and because the way she’d look right at him as though she could see through the thick black silk almost unnerved him. She certainly wouldn’t look straight at him if she could really see him. 

He pushed such worrisome thoughts from his mind as she snuggled against him and made a small noise of contentment to be in his arms. She squirmed just a little, still determined to discover what the rest of him felt like, even if she had to use her own lower body to find out. 

“Thank you, Erik,” she murmured. “Thank you.”

“Anything for you, Kristine.”

By the time the candles had burned down low, Erik was reclined on the divan with Kristine laying across him, her legs entwined with his, and his mind was made up. 

He was going to present himself to the king, and was going to win, and it was going to happen soon. He didn’t want to wait any longer. If all he had to offer was a song, then he would make it the best damn song in the world, one so good that even the king would forget that music was banned. 

They were quiet for a long time, the echoes of their whispered love still hanging in the air around them, each lost in their own thoughts. She shifted against him, taking a deep breath of the air perfumed by the flowers on the little bookshelf. 

“I shan’t ever get married,” she murmured, as though she could tell he was thinking about the contest. “Not if it’s not to you. I don’t care what my father says.”

Erik hummed, trailing his fingers through her long golden hair that had been in elaborate braids at the start of the evening but was now hanging freely over her shoulders and running down her back in curls. 

“I shan’t allow you to get to married anyone else,” he told her. “If some fop accidentally wins the contest I’ll- I’ll swing in on a rope and kidnap you. You’re mine, Kristine.”

She giggled. 

“Never mind where you’re going to swing from, where are you going to swing _to_?”

He paused a long moment, considering it. 

“I’ll build a trapdoor in the royal platform, then,” he said at last. “I’ll flip a switch, and you’ll tumble down onto a pile of pillows, and I’ll whisk you away to a place no one can find us.”

She pursed her lips. 

“I don’t like the tumbling part, but I like the whisking part... Where would you take me, Erik?”

“Under the ground,” he said easily, making it up as he went along. 

“Erik!”

“I’ll build a house under the ground. Right by a lake.”

She pulled back and wrinkled her nose. 

“There are no lakes under the ground!”

“Sometimes there are!” he insisted. 

She sighed heavily and rested her head on his chest again. There was nothing quite like the feeling of pressing her ear over his heart and hearing it’s steady beat, of listening to the music of his pulse that reminded her that her Ghost - her _Angel_ \- was a real man of flesh and blood that she could touch. 

“Tell me a story,” she whispered against his chest. 

“Hmm. I’ll tell you one my mother told me... Once upon a time,” he began, his heart beating fast. “There was a kind woman who wanted nothing more than to have a child of her own. A good fairy assured her that if she went to the market and bought a pumpkin and performed a certain ritual, she would have a child. So she went to the market, but none of shopkeepers would sell her a pumpkin.”

Kristine made a little pouting noise. 

“Why ever not?” 

“Because she was a foreigner, even in her native land,” he murmured, running his fingers through her hair. 

“Oh,” she said softly. 

“They wouldn’t sell her a pumpkin, only a rotten old gourd. And since she truly wanted a child, she still did the ritual.”

“Did it work?” her brow crinkled. 

“Sort of! She did have a child, just as the fairy had promised... But alas! The child was a monster,” he sighed, deviating from how his mother had told it to him. “He was truly terrible to behold, disgusting all around, really...” 

He paused, swallowing hard. 

“Can you imagine?” he asked. “Wanting someone so badly, for so long, and finally laying eyes upon the person you longed for... except you find it’s not a person at all. It’s twisted sham, a monster.”

“No!” she protested, curling his hands into fists around the fabric of his jacket. “No, he’s not a monster!”

“You can’t say that, you haven’t seen him, my dear,” he chuckled darkly. 

Kristine bit her lip, thinking. 

“Well,” she hesitated. “If he is a monster... it’s because man’s hatred has made him so. And surely- surely the cure for hatred is love... If he is to be saved, it will be because love redeems him...”

She pulled away suddenly, turning her blindfolded face to his. 

“Isn’t it? Is that how the story goes?” she asked eagerly. 

He blinked fast, fighting the tears threatening to spill, and wound a curl of her hair around his finger. 

“You know, I can’t seem to remember the ending of that one,” he said, his voice a little thick. 

“Oh,” she laid her head back on his chest. “That’s all right. I know how it ends. Happily ever after, I’m quite certain.”

“Even for monsters?”

“For anyone who has love. Even monsters.”

He hugged her tightly to himself, and when at last he spoke again, his voice held a slight tremble. 

“Kristine- I’m going to present myself to the king in four day’s time. I’m going to win, I know I will, but- but when you see me... If you’ve changed your mind... If you decide you’d rather not, Kristine, just tell your father that I played a trick somehow, or that I stole my song from someone else - just say anything to change his mind, and you won’t have to marry me. It’s alright.”

“Erik- you’re presenting a song to him. If I turn you away-“ she swallowed. “If I turn you away, Erik, he’ll- you’ll be _killed_.”

“Then I can go knowing that I have tasted all the happiness this world can offer, here tonight with you,” he whispered. 

She choked back a sob. 

“Just-“ he paused. “If he makes the execution public, please close your eyes.”

The king would surely force his mask from him before his execution, and Kristine didn’t need to see a gruesome sight like a killing made all the more gruesome by seeing his face. 

“I can’t send you to your grave, Erik!” she cried. 

“Promise me, Kristine, promise me - you won’t agree out of pity. If you accept my hand, it will be out of love and love alone. I’d rather die than have you pity me!” he said fiercely. 

Kristine only continued to cry. He grabbed her by the shoulder and shook her. 

“Promise me!” 

She looked up at him, unseeing. 

“I promise!” 

His own expression softened, and he longed to be able to kiss her tears away. He pulled out his handkerchief - it would have to do. He settled her against the backrest of the chaise and dabbed at her face with the little cloth. The blindfold must not be very comfortable now that it was soaked with tears, he mused. 

“I will not make an object out of you, Kristine,” he said gently. “You must be free to choose who you will marry, and for your own reasons - not out of guilt. If you turn me down, I’ll accept that. It’s nothing to cry over.”

Nothing to cry over? How could he be so cavalier about his own life? Especially when he was so precious to her... She turned away from him, trying to compose herself. 

“I didn’t mean to upset you, my dear,” he fretted over her, patting her hand.

She shook her head, then held her arms out to him. He took the invitation and pulled her close to him once more. 

“How will I know it’s you when you appear before the king?” she sniffled. 

“Oh, you’ll know!”

“Hm. Well, what song are you going to sing?”

“I’m not certain yet.”

“Will you play your lute?”

He hesitated. 

“Erik! You sound like you don’t have a plan at all!”

He shrugged helplessly. 

“Well, that’s what the four days are for! I’ll figure something out!”

“You’ll have to give him music like no one has ever heard before,” she said. “That’s a terribly large feat, but I think, if you put your mind to it...”

“We’ll figure something out,” he assured her. “I promise.”

They stayed together until the dawn, neither one wanting to leave the other. 

Kristine was exhausted the next day, but she had a little smile on her tired face that made the king suspicious. Still, she found it difficult to keep her eyes open during that afternoon’s contest, and thought it was likely terrible for the morale of the poor men vying for hand, she really couldn’t help it. 

After sunset, she visited the secret room to speak to Erik for a few moments. After pressing a kiss to the glass of the mirror, she went to her bed in her room and promptly fell asleep, and once asleep, she had a dream.


	7. Chapter 7

Erik could only slightly feel the exhaustion of staying up all night with Kristine - he was far too elated at what had occurred. Kristine had spent the last few hours of morning trying to get some sleep before she was expected at breakfast, and Erik had set off for the woods where he planned to sit in solitude and write and plan a song. 

It was on that path to the woods that he happened to see an old woman fretting over her cart which was being pulled by a donkey. As he came closer, he noticed that the wheel had fallen off the cart. Try as she might, she couldn’t get the wheel reattached - she was simply too frail and the cart too heavy. 

Erik felt conflicted as he walked by her. He feared she would think he was some sort of robber, with his masked face and only the two of them on this old deserted path in the woods. Still - what would become of her out here if she couldn’t fix the wheel? 

He stopped and turned back, trying to look non-threatening. 

“Good morning! Having a little trouble, it seems?” he said cheerfully. 

The old woman looked relieved that he had returned. 

“I was heading for the market when the wheel got stuck in the mud,” she explained. 

“Here,” Erik offered. “I’ll lift up the cart, and you slide the wheel back on.”

With Erik’s help, the wheel was easily fixed. The old woman laughed and clapped her hands. 

“Oh, my boy,” she said, delighted. “I knew you would do it!”

Erik felt a wave of confusion as she looked at him with eyes that suddenly seemed too sharp, and he wondered if this woman knew him from somewhere. 

“Let me give you a reward!”

Erik fidgeted. The old woman looked incredibly poor, and he didn’t feel comfortable taking anything from her. 

She held out her hand. 

“Give me your lute,” she practically demanded. 

Erik stared, dumbstruck. He had his lute with him, of course, but he had wrapped it in a blanket and its form was indistinguishable from a mere sack swung over his shoulder, as he had been hoping to avoid anyone noticing it. 

“Well, give it here, son!”

Not knowing what else to do, he handed her the lute. She held it out in front of her, inspecting it with shrewd eyes. She gave it a sudden twirl in her hands, and before Erik’s eyes the instrument was transformed in its shape. It became thinner and stretched out, the sides dipping in a little. With a flick of her wrist she somehow produced a long stick in one hand, and, setting the former lute at her chin, she dragged the stick across the strings and produced the most beautiful music Erik had ever heard. 

She smiled and tilted her head as she held the odd instrument out to Erik. 

“There,” she said. “I think this is a little more what you were looking for.”

Erik stood with his mouth gaping, trying to determine what, exactly, was the secret of the stick. It looked to be made of wood, but there was something white on one side of it. 

She made a little noise of encouragement and shook the instrument, which he hastily took. When he looked for the stick in her hand, however, it was gone. 

“I call it the _violin_ ,” she said with a wink. “Your quest is a noble one - quests for true love generally are. But you’re not quiet there yet. You’ll have to provide your own bow.”

Bow? Was that the stick?

“That’s what makes the music, and it has to be personal. It wouldn’t work if I just gave you mine. You’ll have to find what makes your own heart sing, and then the violin will too!”

Erik looked down at his lute - at his _violin_ , he supposed - and wondered if he was hallucinating. Perhaps no sleep really was bad for you! 

“Thank you,” was all he could manage. 

She beamed. 

“Good luck, Camlo.”

He looked up, startled, but the woman, her cart, and her donkey were gone. 

He clutched the violin close to him and nearly ran out into the forest, his heart pounding and his brow cold with sweat. What the devil had just happened? 

Once his nerves had recovered, he spent the rest of the morning trying to figure out how to play it. It made noises, certainly, but nothing like what the old woman had coaxed out of it. 

His mind was still consumed with it as he watched that day’s contest, and he wanted to bring it up to Kristine that evening. But when they met, he could tell how tired she was. Not wishing to overtax her poor mind, he held his tongue and sent her to bed with words of love. 

At first he thought he’d go to sleep, too, but he found his mind was still buzzing too much. He set out to construct a bow of his own. 

After trying and failing with a variety of different materials to recreate the sound he had heard, he finally realized that the bow was probably made of hair. He snuck into the royal stables, a pair of scissors in hand. 

The horse looked at him curiously, and he patted animal on the muzzle. He let it sniff his hands and gained its trust before he carefully trimmed some of the hairs from its tail. Before leaving the stable, he found the box of treats and gave the poor beast a sugar cube, wondering if anyone was going to notice the missing hair. No matter. It would grow back. 

He strung the hairs through the bow and tested the sound, and it was much better - but still not enough to win the contest. He wanted to weep in frustration. He only had three more days! He hated having to put it off now that he had decided, but he knew what he had now wasn’t enough. He returned to his hiding place and got a few fitful hours of sleep to distract him from his despair. 

True to her word, Kristine had not been out of the castle in a long time, and there was no exception even now. She couldn’t walk old forest roads and meet a fairy, but luckily for her fairies were not bound by such conventions. 

She dreamt she was in her garden, watering her many roses, when suddenly there was a visitor there with her. It was a woman, a beautiful woman who looked to be only a little older than Kristine herself, but something about her made Kristine think she was much, much older even than the king. 

“Such lovely roses, Kristine,” the strange woman complimented her. 

Kristine blushed. 

“Thank you very much,” she ducked her head, feeling shy around her. “Would you like one?”

“No, dear, that’s not why I’m here,” she chuckled. “It’s about your boy.”

Kristine realized she meant Erik. 

“Oh! The Angel?”

She was careful to not mention his name, knowing it was private, but somehow she still felt that this woman already knew his name and much, much more. 

“Yes, that’s right! You’ll be seeing him again very soon, won’t you?”

Kristine was too embarrassed to meet her eye. 

“We see each other every day!”

“Ah, of course you do - but you will _see_ him very shortly, too.”

Kristine placed her hands over heart. She _would_ be seeing him soon...

“Even now, he’s working tirelessly to free you... But, I’m afraid, he’s not quite picking it up,” she chuckled. “He needs a little more help, and that’s why I’m here.”

Kristine looked up at her. 

“What can I do?” she offered. “How can I help him?” 

“He needs something,” she said thoughtfully. “But he’s looking in all the wrong places.”

“I’ll help him look,” she insisted. 

“He doesn’t need help looking. He needs something else...” she reached out and ran a finger through Kristine’s hair. 

Kristine’s brow furrowed, thinking hard. She looked down at her own hands and notice for the first time that she was holding a pair of scissors. 

“He needs my hair?”

The woman nodded. 

“Do you understand what you have to do, dear?”

“Yes,” Kristine clutched the little silver scissors. “I do. And this will be enough to help him?”

“It will. Good luck, min älskling.” 

Kristine felt an ache in her chest to hear the name her mother used to call her as a child, but just as she was about to ask the woman how she knew all this, Kristine found herself awake in her bed and under her numerous blankets. The memory of the dream was still fresh in her mind. 

She threw back the blankets and rushed to her dresser drawer were she kept her sewing scissors, then took a long look at herself in her mirror as she tried to banish the tremble in her hands as she raised the silver scissors to her golden locks. 

Erik smiled as he watched her enter to secret room. He was still beyond frustrated that he couldn’t recreate the magical music, and he was beginning to think that perhaps he’d simply have to make due with what he currently had. 

“Erik,” Kristine said breathlessly before he could say anything. “I had a dream...”

“A good one or a bad one, my dear?”

“A _strange_ one... I hope you don’t think me silly, but I do believe you’re needing this...”

She held up her hand, and for the first time Erik noticed that she was clutching a fistful of her own hair. 

“Kristine!” he cried. 

“Don’t worry!” she turned and lifted the rest of her hair, showing where she cut it from underneath her other hair. “I don’t think anyone will notice! And I don’t know what, exactly, you need it for, but-“

She carefully laid the hair down on the divan. 

Erik could barely believe such a thing - he was kicking himself for overlooking that the missing ingredient to his success was Kristine, but he also he knew he never would have asked to have her shorn hair so he could use it. He didn’t bother to ask how she came up with the idea of cutting off her hair for him - he had a feeling he already knew. 

“Daddy is expecting me at breakfast,” she pressed a hand to the glass. “But I’ll see you tonight.”

“Tonight, Kristine.”

Once she was safely gone he removed the mirror and collected the hair. He carefully restrung the bow and tested the sound. It was like nothing else. He wanted to weep. 

Although he seemingly now had everything he needed to win the contest, he still needed to write a song and practice it. It was with much regret that he informed Kristine that evening that he would be leaving so he could focus on his music and not become distracted. 

“You’ll see me in person next time we meet, my love,” he told her anxiously. 

She looked up at the mirror with wide eyes and nodded. 

“Do you need me to do anything else? Can I help you?”

“No, my dear, it’s alright. Just be patient, and trust it will work out.”

She leaned her forehead against the mirror. 

“I’ll miss you.”

“I’ll miss you, too, Kristine. But after this... We’ll never have to be parted again, if you don’t wish it. I promise.”

Kristine found she missed him even more than she anticipated. She’d hadn’t realized just how much she had looked forwards to their time together until he wasn’t there. 

It rained the next day, and she stared out her window, wondering if he was staying dry. Her thoughts increasingly turned towards him. 

She wondered about the song he was supposedly preparing - he wouldn’t let her hear even a single note of it. Had he finished it yet? Was it ready? 

In her more melancholy moments she wondered if he was even coming back. Had he deemed it too risky? Had he changed his mind? Had it all been a game to him, to seduce the king’s daughter and then disappear? She hoped she meant more to him that. 

Finally the day arrived that Erik had said he would appear before the king, and Kristine couldn’t stop fidgeting. Was he coming? Would she recognize him?

She watched each man who came forward with great interest, only to become bored once she had ruled him out of being Erik. Too short, too portly, too much muscle to be the man who had held her so close and so tenderly all night long - there were many such men and the afternoon seemed to drag. He had said she’d definitely know when it was him, but she still wasn’t certain she would. She did have some idea of what he had felt like, but beyond that, she didn’t even know what to look for. 

It was towards the end of that day’s contest that a man in a mask stepped forward as the guards escorted him, like they had with every other contestant, to stand in front in of the platform, and suddenly Kristine understood.


	8. Chapter 8

Kristine felt as if the world around her fell away. This was Erik, her Ghost, her Angel, standing here before her, and in all of the world there was only her and him. The sight of him stole the very breath from her lungs. He was masked and cloaked with a cape, but she knew with a fierce certainty that it was him. 

It wasn’t just that lanky frame her body remembered so well - it was the look in those strange mismatched eyes as he gazed up at her, so full of love and hope. Whereas nearly every other suitor had greeted the king and looked to him alone (him, the judge of the contest, the only one most cared about impressing), Erik didn’t even spare a fleeting glance for the old man. He looked at Kristine and only at Kristine, and, in a decision that the king would be justified in calling insolent, he bowed only to Kristine. 

“Your highness,” the smooth, dark voice she loved so dearly wrapped around her like an embrace. “I hope my gift to you pleases you.”

The king shifted, annoyed at being ignored so. 

He swept off his long cape, revealing at last the violin, and the crowd became antsy, fearing that he was a musician. But no one had seen a musical instrument like this before, and they were confused. 

The king tightened his grip on the arm rests of his throne. Did this brat think to present a song to him (for the gifts were supposed to be for _him_ , not his daughter, this boy clearly didn’t understand how it worked)? The king seethed at the very thought, but he decided to let him play a handful of notes to seal his fate. Was he an unjust king? No, of course not! He couldn’t have him killed before he’d even broken the law. Two notes, that’s all it would take, and he’d call down the guard’s battle ax which would make swift work of the matter. There could be no excuse to save this one - he had known perfectly well that music was forbidden, everyone knew this after the first man who had played the lyre was sent to the dungeon. 

Erik, still with his gaze fixed on Kristine, set the violin at his chin and the pulled the bow across it. 

The king raised an accusing finger at him, his mouth open to shout his orders, but they never came. 

The music was unlike anything he had ever heard. He forgot that he was going to have the boy killed. He forgot that music was forbidden. He forgot everything except that song as it played. 

Kristine placed a hand over her heart. This was music of the most exquisite kind. She stared, unblinking, until her eyes filled with tears to hear the music. 

The crowd was similarly stunned into silence and stillness. What was this strange instrument? Who was this strange man? 

Erik pursed his lips as he played, watching the emotion on Kristine’s face. It was a song for her, a song from his very soul, and he himself - despite having written it and played it numerous times already - was not unmoved by it. It was as though her spirit and his voice had combined and condensed into this music - music coaxed into being by his hands and made possible by her sacrifice of her hair. 

The tune, which had spoken of longing and admiration from afar, changed suddenly into one of joy and delight, the same delight they had found in each other’s company. She smiled at him through her tears and her heart swelled with giddiness. The old king, even, began to smile and nod his head, swaying his hand in time. The crowd felt it too, a wave of joyfulness sweeping over them. 

But then the music changed again, and this time it told of the pain that is felt when true lovers are parted. It caused an ache deep in Kristine’s chest, and the crowd - and the king - grew somber and still. 

The song ended, and Erik lowered his violin. He looked up at the king, steeling himself to hear his doom spelled out. The guards looked at the king, uncertain. The crowd stared at the king, waiting to see his response. Kristine glanced to him, holding her breath. 

He was trembling all over and looked very pale. He raised his hand again, pointing at Erik. 

Erik lifted his chin, defiant to the end. His pulse was fast and made him feel dizzy, but he intended to face his own death with as much bravery and dignity as he could muster - or, barring that, find some way to escape at the last minute. 

“This boy-“ the king rasped, as though the words hurt him. “This boy has won.”

He immediately stood and excused himself, rushing back into the tent set up just behind the thrones, needing a moment of privacy. 

The guards ushered Erik up to the platform, and he ascended the stairs slowly, as though he could hardly believe what had happened. There were cheers and shouts from the crowd as they celebrated not only the upcoming wedding but also the music they had just heard. Erik and Kristine were deaf to this clamoring, however, focused only on each other. 

It pained her that he looked almost sad, or perhaps apologetic even. When he finally stood before her and still did not take his mask off, she began to realize that this was likely not something he wore simply to protect his identity, and it slowly dawned on her why, exactly, he had insisted on hiding, insisted on the blindfold. There was something under the mask that he didn’t want her to see. 

She found she had no words as he stood before her. Instead she simply offered her hand to him in mimicry of the gesture they would soon be repeating in front of a priest as they took they the vows that would bind them together for the rest of their lives, but Kristine knew that those vows would only be a verbal confirmation of what was already true - of what had been true for quite some time now. Before any vow was even uttered, fate had already bound Kristine to Erik for forever and a day. 

He took her hand, and, ever the gentleman, he bowed to her before bringing her hand up and underneath the silk of his mask, pressing his lips to her knuckles. 

She let out a little gasp. His lips. They felt thin and crooked, but they were _his_ , and she wanted them on her skin again. 

Erik misunderstood. Concern passed through his strange eyes, and he squeezed her hand gently. Did he frighten her, after all?

“Kristine,” he pleaded softly. “I need to speak with you alone, before this goes much farther.”

She nodded and tugged his hand for him to follow her, leading him back to her own tent where they could speak privately. 

Once inside, she looked up at him eagerly. She found she didn’t want to stop looking at him, lest he simply disappear. 

“What is it, dear?” she asked. 

Each of his hands twisted around the other as he sought the correct words. 

“Kristine, I am- deformed,” he finally said, and her brow creased with sympathy. 

“Oh,” she breathed. 

“It is-“ he looked away, sorrowful. “It is _bad_ , and I wish to give you one last chance to annul this union...”

He reached a shaking hand up to his mask, hesitating. Would she faint? Would she scream? Would she send him away after she had seen? 

He averted his eyes from her face, swallowing hard. She kept her steady gaze upon him, and he could hardly bear it. 

He closed his eyes so he wouldn’t have to see the revulsion he knew would be on her face when she saw, and he pulled the mask off, his entire horrible face finally on view. 

There was silence in the tent. 

He drew in a tremulous breath, bracing himself for rejection. She would hate him now, hate him for lying to her and leading her on like this, she would banish him if he was lucky or have him executed if he was not, she would- 

She reached up and kissed him on the lips. 

His breath hitched. Nothing had prepared him for those soft hands on either side of his face, how her fingers gently caressed his malformed skin and tangled in his black hair, how she pulled him down to be able to reach his mouth. 

He broke away, utterly baffled, his thin fingers flying up to touch his lips. Had she really just-?

“Kristine-!”

She looked up at him, her hands resting on his shoulders, both of them so close together. 

“I don’t mind your face, Erik,” she said softly. “I’ve seen your soul, and it is beautiful, and that’s all that matters to me.”

She leaned up on her tiptoes and kissed him again, and this time he let his mask drop to the ground as he wrapped his arms around her and returned her kiss. 

He held her tightly for a long time after the kiss had ended, burying his noseless face in her hair and weeping. She held him just as tightly, whispering comforting words to him, assuring him they’d never be parted. 

They soon heard the guard’s voice ringing out to the crowd, “ _Stand by for an announcement from the king!_ ”

Erik hurriedly dried his eyes and replaced his mask, and Kristine held his hand as they walked back out into the platform, finding that the king was already there.

The king looked incredibly nervous, and when he spoke, his voice was grave. 

“I started this contest so that I might be shown something I had never seen before,” he began. “And this young man has done exactly that - I have seen something I had never seen before. I have seen the error of my ways.”

He paused for a long moment, the crowd hanging on his every word. Hearing that song had shaken him to the very core of his being. It had brought up so many old memories of his wife and how happy she had been when immersed in the world of music, of how coldly he had treated her, stifling her joy until her only option was to flee from him - and of how he was treating Kristine just the same, now. It had made him think of things he’d long tried to forget, and made him look at parts of himself he had avoided for years. 

His eyes scanned the crowd. What use was power if he had not love? What joy was there to be found in other people if each relationship was strangled by the fear of loss and the search for ways to wield power over them? Love died and turned to sorrow in the tight fist of control, just as the musician’s joyful tune had turned so mournful. 

He hadn’t always been this way, but somehow along the lines he had lost his way. 

“I am stepping down as king, effectively immediately.”

A murmur ran through the crowd. 

“In my place, Kristine will be crowned as your new queen,” he turned to his daughter, regret plainly written across his face, and he lowered his voice so that it would be heard by only her. “And as queen she is free to decide her spouse and future as she sees fit.”

Her hand squeezed around Erik’s long, thin hand, reassuring him. She turned to look at him, his face masked but his emotion clear to see in those strange eyes. 

“I choose you,” she said gently but with great conviction. “In a thousand lifetimes, in a thousand universes, I would choose you over and over. I will always choose you.”

“The coronation will be this evening,” the king continued. 

“And the wedding will be tomorrow!” Kristine hastily interjected. 

The old man took one last look out at his subjects. He knew he would not be here again. 

“I’m sorry,” he said simply, and left the platform, walking back into the castle. 

The coronation was held that very evening, as soon as the arrangements could be made. Erik was there by her side at her request, and immediately after she was queen her first action was to bestow upon him the title of Prince Consort. Her second action was to send out a proclamation in which she declared that music was no longer banned, that the prisoners in the dungeon would be immediately released, and that all of the harsh laws her father had set on the land would be erased. 

Just as she had wished, the wedding was held the very next day. Despite the very short notice, it was still a grand affair - preparations had in place for some time now, waiting on standby for the king to declare a winner. 

It was a lovely ceremony all around - Kristine had never looked so beautiful as she did in her elaborate wedding gown. Erik felt like the luckiest man in all of history, and when the priest told him that he could kiss the bride, he carefully lifted the silk of his mask so that he could kiss her, obstructing the crowd’s view of his terrible mouth with his hand. 

After the ceremony there was feasting and laughter and stories, and, for the first time in many years, music. 

It was as this reveling was going on that the former king said his apologies and goodbyes to his daughter and thanked the strange man who had set his life on a different course. 

Although her relationship with her father was strained and often contentious, she had loved him once when she was a little girl and he had been kinder, so she hugged him and wished him well on his journey, but his leaving still felt like a relief to her. 

She stayed there at the edge of the road a long moment, Erik’s arm wrapped around her shoulders, as they watched the old man leaving. A spiritual pilgrimage, he had said, as penance for the misdeeds throughout his life. All three knew deep down they would not see each other again. 

She sighed as she leaned against Erik, watching her father grow smaller and smaller in the distance. Erik rested his chin on the top of her head. He wasn’t sad to see the old man go at all, but he knew Kristine might be, so he held his tongue and bit back any joke he felt like making about the man’s leaving. Finally she looked up at him and smiled. A page had turned in the book of their lives, and a new chapter was starting. 

They returned to the party, where they both surprised the many guests by singing a beautiful duet that was talked about for months to come. 

At the edges of the great crowd was an old woman looking on with a knowing and satisfied smile on her well-worn face. She had promised a young woman, once, that her child would grow up to be rich in both money and love, and now - now he was. It was plain for anyone to see how much the queen loved him, and he now held a noble title as well. 

No one noticed her there in midst of the dancing and singing and flowers and candles and wine, but that was all right. She didn’t need to be seen by anyone to appreciate this tapestry of life that spread out before her - a tapestry that contained so very many threads. And somewhere at the intersection of all these threads - a queen who had longed for freedom and now lived a joy filled life with her new husband, an old man on the long and winding road to redemption, a young man who had wanted to be able to bring a new sort of music into the world, a princess who had wanted nothing more that to sing and be her own mistress, a wife who had only wanted to have a child - at the intersection of all these tales was the story of how the first violin had come into the world. 

But the tapestry was still being woven. The old woman could not say for certain what might lay ahead for them all. Perhaps Erik would begin to create more violins, instruments that could go out into the world and tell the tale of the love between a simple traveler and a princess. Perhaps somewhere out there an old Romani couple would be sitting near a fire with the rest of their camp and hear the song the violin had to tell, and they would feel a comfort deep in their soul that their son had, somewhere, somehow, found great happiness. Perhaps that song might even draw them here, to the castle, to their boy. Perhaps the former queen would return as well, with her own musician husband, and they - along with the Romani couple - would help to raise the ever-growing brood of their many grandchildren, happy and beautiful and kind children that were the light of their parents’ life. 

But she couldn’t say for certain. All she could say for certain was that the young couple who had just wed were truly in love. This love would not prevent them from having trials and troubles in life, but even still, she knew without a doubt that their love would remain, and that anywhere there is an abiding love, there will always be a happily ever after.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much to everyone who read! <3 Especially thank you to a-partofthenarrative for coming up with the Fairy Tale AU idea, because without that this story wouldn’t exist <33
> 
> Kristine’s words to Erik about choosing him were subconsciously inspired by a quote from “The Chaos of Stars” by Kiersten White


End file.
